2:00 am. Vikings are in my kitchen again. I get up to find them raiding the refrigerator. Halfdan is drinking milk from the carton and the face of Harald the Ruthless is smeared with fat free Jell-O Pudding.
"I've told you guys to keep it down," I say.
"Would it kill you to buy some beer just once," counters Harald.
I shake my head and wander toward the living room, passing Michael Psellus in the hallway. He has my copy of the poetry of Christina Rosetti and seems enthralled. I figured Psellus for more of a Tennyson type, but there ya go.
I flip on the lights in the living room, surprising Mark Anthony and Cleopatra who are necking on the couch.
"Jeez, get a room you two," I say, turning off the light again.
I make my way back to the bedroom, warning the Vikings to turn the lights off when they are done as I pass the kitchen. They sneer at me as only Norse raiders can.
I hop back in bed and hope I can get back to sleep. For the umpteenth time I vow to stop reading history books before bedtime.